


I've got a demon in mind and she's standing behind my dark secret.

by Queenofthebees



Series: 31 Days of Jonsa [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Jonsa, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Mentions of past abuse, Nightmares, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 12:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13881153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenofthebees/pseuds/Queenofthebees
Summary: They always started out the same. He was trapped under the bodies at the Battle of the Bastards, suffocating and panicking under the weight, the smell of blood and sweat soaking through his skin. And then he would hear Sansa scream, scream his name and for him to get up.He never did. It usually faded to black for a second, as though he truly had died again. And Sansa’s scream would echo in that nothingness, reminding him that he had left her, had broken his promise to protect her. Sometimes he awoke right after that nightmare and he felt like those were the kinder nights.Day 5 of 31 Days of Jonsa: Dreams and Nightmares





	I've got a demon in mind and she's standing behind my dark secret.

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Mentions of Ramsay and past rape/abuse occurring in nightmare. Also characters like Robb, Cat and Ned are described as alluding to how they died. Nothing majorly graphic per say but you might think about it in your head and stuff. Just staying safe :)
> 
> It is a happy ending!
> 
> Title from Draculina by Alkaline Trio

He gasped awake, jerking at the feel of Ghost’s tongue on his cheek. He reached up and gently pushed the wolf away, rubbing his ears in reassurance as he continued to take deep, calming breathes.

He moved his spare hand up to scrub across his face, grimacing at the feel of sweat on his fingertips. Ghost whined beside him, shuffling closer and laying his head on Jon’s lap. Those red eyes stared up at him in sympathy, as though he had been able to see inside Jon’s nightmares himself.

They always started out the same. He was trapped under the bodies at the Battle of the Bastards, suffocating and panicking under the weight, the smell of blood and sweat soaking through his skin. And then he would hear Sansa scream, scream his name and for him to get up.

He never did. It usually faded to black for a second, as though he truly had died again. And Sansa’s scream would echo in that nothingness, reminding him that he had left her, had broken his promise to protect her. Sometimes he awoke right after that nightmare and he felt like those were the kinder nights.

For when the nightmares continued, he would be in Sansa’s chambers, tied to the chair and forced to watch as Ramsay tortured and raped her. Sansa would scream again and again, agonising screams that made him cry along with her.

“She’s a fine woman, your sister,” Ramsay would drawl when he finally moved away from her body, leaving her bleeding and limp on the bed. Ramsay would smile. “But you know that, don’t you?” he would continue, circling Jon like a snake and tilting his chin up. “You want her, don’t you? You really are a filthy bastard.”

And then, he would be in the Godswood, head bowed before the Heart tree. He would always be wearing his Night’s Watch clothing when Catelyn come upon him with her lips curled in disgust, eyes burning through him like dragonfire.

She would never speak, her throat slashed open too much to allow for that. She would hold out a bronze crown, her stare boreing through him, daring him to take it. Jon would always scrumble away and shake his head

“I would never take it from them!” Jon would cry out. “I never wanted them dead! I don’t want Sansa dead either!”

He would yell it over and over as father would come forward, blood dripping from his throat, puddling by his feet. And then Robb, with Grey Wind’s head still attached and arrows poking from his skin. His eyes would stare right through Jon, accusing and disgusted.

“You don’t want Sansa dead,” a voice would echo around them as though it were the Gods themselves. The crown in Catelyn’s hands turned into a wreath of blue winter roses. “You want her though. I know you do, Jon Snow. Bastard blood always tells.”

Sansa would appear in his mind then, always lying naked and spread on his bed, a perfect gift for him to take for his own. And when her eyes would meet his, brimming with betrayed tears, the sickness would run through him so hard he would jerk awake.

That was what had happened tonight.

He lifted his hand from Ghost, pressing both hands against his face as he rubbed his eyes. Beside him, Ghost whined softly, leaning up to lick his wrist until Jon dropped his hands and lay back down, burying his nose in the warm fur of his dire wolf.

The nightmares were graphic and awoke guilt inside of him. For while he had never wanted to take Winterfell from his true-born siblings, he had wanted Winterfell. He had always wanted Winterfell. And more harrowing than Robb’s disappointment or Catelyn’s rage, what made Ramsay’s words even more horrifying was the deep shame that it was all true.

He was in love with his sister. And he wanted her.

***

She tapped lightly on the door, pressing her ear against the wood to try and distinguish any movements or sounds on the other side. She frowned as she heard no shuffling footsteps, no call for her to come in. She knew Jon was in his chambers, he had just gone from the Godswood straight to them.

“Jon?” she called out, knocking again.

When there was still no response, she gently pushed the handle down and opened the door. She sighed as she saw him sitting by the fire, staring vacantly into the flames and his cup of ale held loosely under his clawed hands.

“Jon?” she said again, making her way towards him and kneeling at his feet.

He still didn’t look at her, even as she reached to take his ale and place it on the floor. Only when she clasped his hand between both of hers did his eyes move down to look. She watched his throat bob and now that she is close enough, she can see the dampness on his lashes.

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered, squeezing his hand tighter. “Jon, please. Please talk to me.”

“I’m a Targaryen,” he mumbled dully.

“You’re a Stark,” she responded firmly.

He scoffed, moving to try and pull his hand from hers. She tugged it back, automatically lifting it to her lips to place a kiss to the knuckles. Her eyes had fluttered closed but when she heard the sharp intake of breath, she opened them again, meeting his wide eyes.

“Sansa,” he whispered.

“You’re a Stark,” she insisted, her lips still brushing his skin as she talked. “Rhaegar was not your father, not really. Ned Stark raised you. You are a northerner. And I will not let anyone else say otherwise.”

“The Lords won’t like it,” he murmured, followed by a self-deprecating chuckle.

“They won’t do anything to you,” she replied fiercely. She shifted closer, one hand still clasping his own while the other sat gently on his knee. She met his eyes, willing him to see the determination there. “I’ll protect you, I promise.”

His face softened, his free hand raising to cup her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed as it stroked the skin, his thumb dropping to slide against her top lip and making her breath stutter in her throat.

In truth, she had thought about Jon when he had been gone but it hadn’t been in the way of a brother. She had dreamed of him kissing her in the Godswood, had dreamed of their children filling the halls of Winterfell and of them just holding each other as they lay in bed, talking about what they had done all day.

She was selfish, she knew. But the news that he is not her brother had lifted a weight from her shoulders. She had known that she would never have him but the fact that she wanted him all the same was no longer this shameful sin that she carried with her in all her waking hours. She was free to long for him, her cousin, and not feel shame or guilt for it. Only the dull heartache of knowing that he may still have seen her as a sister.

But, as she opened her eyes to look at him, she saw how black they were and how he was staring at her lips, his own parting. Without thinking, she pushed herself up and pressed her lips against his own.

He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, tensing beneath her and for a horrible second, she thought she had made a terrible misjudgement. She moved back, ready to apologise but Jon leaned forward, his hand burying in her hair as he kissed her.

She moaned at the firm feel of them against her, the way his hands hold her hair and cheek, keeping her close to him. She smiled against him at the thought he was desperate to keep her like this, as though she would ever want to be anywhere else.

“Jon,” she breathed as she moved back. He made a soft whimpering sound, moving his head as if to chase her lips. She turned her head with a smile. “Jon,” she tried again, turning back to him. “Do you believe me, that I will protect you?”

“The Lords won’t be easily appeased,” he replied. “They’re northerners, we’re stubborn.”

“There is a way,” she murmured, feeling her cheeks flush as the thought occurs to her. “We could marry.”

“Marry?” he echoed but her heart fluttered at how it sounded more surprised than disgusted. She nodded.

“If…if you would like,” she continued, dipping her head down in shyness, afraid to see his reaction.

But then he slid a hand under her chin, gently tipping it up so she was looking up at him. She licked her lips nervously, Jon’s eyes dropping down instantly to follow the movement before he seemed to shake himself out of his daze.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I’ve dreamed of nothing but for so long.”

She exhaled in relief, feeling her cheeks ache with the smile that spread across her face. She reached and pulled his hand again to kiss the knuckles once more.

“Me too,” she murmured.


End file.
